


The Curse of Mononucleosis

by interflora



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Holidays, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-14
Updated: 2012-11-14
Packaged: 2017-11-18 15:48:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/562734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interflora/pseuds/interflora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the LJ hurt!Sam comment fic meme</p><p>Prompt by ladykorana: Sam has mono, which gives the boys a great excuse to take some time off and enjoy Christmas at Bobby's house. Bobby tries to give them the works, even though Sam keeps falling asleep through a lot of it. Lots of fussing over feverish Sam, please!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Curse of Mononucleosis

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for slight wincest.

It’s definitely not the first time Sam’s kissed a girl, but it’s the first time after a hunt with his blood roaring in his ears and his heart in his throat and it’s _good_ and it’s wet and before he knows it, he’s got a hand tangled in her hair.

He and Dean had pulled off a quick salt n’ burn in the nick of time, saving Callie Hutchins from a voodoo spirit with a taste for beheading brunettes.

She gasps in surprise against him and it’s enough to bring him back to himself. They break apart and Sam doesn’t meet her eyes. They’re both too embarrassed, looking anywhere but at each other and Sam _prays_ that Dean doesn’t come back any time soon.

Then Callie laughs, her cheeks a faint pink.

“Sorry, Sam. I dunno why I—I guess I’m just… thanks.”

“No problem,” Sam says, dazed.

He smiles tentatively at her.

It’s another one of those times where he wonders what his life would’ve been like if he hadn’t been raised in the backseat of an old Chevy; if he hadn’t been cursed from birth to ramble on and on with his brother, leaving a trail of burnt corpses and the stench of gasoline behind them.

Speaking of, Dean comes around the corner a second later, whistling a Jethro Tull tune and completely oblivious to what he almost walked in on.

Sam takes another step back from Callie which only makes him look guilty. Stupid.

Dean shoots the two of them an appraising glance.

“You ready to go?”

Sam nods.

“Yeah. See you around, Callie. Call us if, uh, you ever need us.”

“Sure.”

She smiles back and waves them off from her porch as Dean guns the Impala and puts Melrose in the rear view.

 

*****

 

Sam wakes up hours later, folded up in the passenger seat as usual. Dean’s humming along to CCR and Sam knows just from a glance that he’ll be good to drive for a while yet.

Besides, he’s still exhausted from the hunt.

He clears his throat which is prickling a little, probably the start of a winter cold, and leans back against the window and shuts his eyes again.

Sam is so tired when they finally get to the motel that he barely remembers falling into bed, and when Dean’s alarm goes off the next morning, he feels about thirty pounds heavier, particularly in his legs and arms which are absolutely _aching._

He gets up to go to the bathroom, so weak he has to lean against the wall for support.

In the mirror, Sam sees that his throat is swollen. Like, he can actually feel that his neck has expanded. It’s puffy and tender on the sides and it’s difficult for him to speak.

He can’t remember the last time he was this ill.

 

*****

 

Dean’s the one hitting the books this time, and hard.

Sam would help if he could keep his eyes open, but he’s so exhausted he can’t even get out of bed. He feels useless—the answer’s probably right in front of them.

They hunker down in Minnesota for a week in the same motel. They both know they’ve got to get moving soon if they want to beat the incoming snow storms, but Dean is adamant about staying put til they find a lead.

“I don’t get it; you’ve been running a fever for days. You never get fevers,” Dean says. His eyes are creased with worry lines.

Sam nods. On the rare occasion he does, they rarely last more than a night before his body gets them under control.

“Could just be a bad flu.”

“I dunno,” Dean shakes his head. “You think it could be something from that spirit?”

“’S possible,” Sam rasps. “Leftover voodoo? Some kind of hex, or curse?”

Dean nods and closes the massive old book on the table in front of him.

“Think I’m just sick, Dean.” Sam tries to repress a shiver but it doesn’t get past his brother.

“You need another blanket?”

“There aren’t any more in the closet.”

“I’ll go to reception,” Dean says, getting up.

“’Sokay, Dean. You don’t have to—”

But Dean’s already up and out of the room.

 

***** 

 

That night, Dean brings him wonton soup in bed and Sam could kiss him he’s so grateful.

Unfortunately, he only manages a few spoonfuls before Dean has to take the plastic container away from him because he’s about to chuck it across the room in frustration.

He can’t seem to get anything down.

He sighs and lets Dean take it, slipping back down under the blankets.

Sam stares longingly at where it sits on the nightstand; wishes he could eat something, anything. His stomach hurts like a motherfucker and he’s sure if he could just get a meal in it, he’d feel better. But his appetite is nonexistent and the salty aroma of the soup only makes him nauseous.

“Sorry, Sam,” Dean says, glancing up from the websites he has pulled up on Sam’s laptop.

Sam sighs and leans back against the pillows.

This sucks.

 

*****

 

Christmas is closing in and the Winchesters are still in Minnesota.

With Sam out of commission and Dean running on empty, the only logical thing to do is to hole up at Bobby’s until they get back on the right track. Chances are they’ll be stuck in Sioux Falls for at least a week with the weather being what it is.

Dean helps him into the passenger seat, keeping the heat cranked the whole way. He even leaves the music off for Sam’s pounding headache.

He smuggles some threadbare blankets out of the motel room, which Sam doesn’t complain about too much. He’s too cold and tired to bitch about morality, and being wrapped in warmth almost makes the journey bearable. He shivers a lot anyways.

Sam sleeps the entire four hours, waking up intermittently with fever sweat on his brow and Dean’s worried glances on him.

 

*****

 

Bobby greets them at the gate of the salvage yard, cap pulled low over his eyes and wearing a trademark flannel.

“C’mon in before you catch your death,” Bobby says, shepherding them into the house.

“Jeez, Bobby, you act like it’d be the first time or somethin’,” Dean grins, his arm at Sam’s back, guiding him towards the porch.

“I got it,” Sam tries to snap at Dean. It comes out in a pathetic wheeze.

“Sure ya do,” Dean sniggers and steps in close ‘til Sam’s leaning on him.

Dean sets him up on Bobby’s couch with a pile of pillows and old quilts, making sure Sam’s so wrapped up he can’t move.

Sam coughs and whines and complains but ends up dropping off to sleep five minutes later.

 

*****

 

He wakes up groggy and sore as ever.

Dean and Bobby are talking in low tones in the kitchen.

“—haven’t seen him like this in _years…”_

“It could just be a flu, Dean. Things happen.”

Dean sighs and there’s the sound of footsteps coming closer.

“Why don’t you boys stay here for a while?”

 The steps pause.

“Thanks, Bobby. But we oughta—”

“Don’t gimme that. You’re staying here and we’ll have a real goddamn Christmas for once.”

Dean huffs a laugh.

“A real goddamn Bobby Singer Christmas? I must be dreaming.”

The two men come into the living room and Dean’s good humor immediately vanishes.

“Jesus, Sammy, you ain’t lookin’ so hot.”

“What were you expecting?” Sam mumbles. He manages to sit up, conscious of the fact he hasn’t showered in at least two days. He’s been too tired.

His hair is an absolute mess of matted tangles, his eyes are weepy, his throat is coated in slime, and his stomach is one solid block of pain. He’s still sweating from the fever.

Dean hurries forward and drops to his knees beside the couch, rearranging Sam’s pillows and pulling the blankets up around Sam’s shoulders.

Bobby has the good grace not to comment, though he does clear his throat as if to say, _you done yet, Mary Poppins?_

Dean goes red and stands up, turning to face Bobby.

“Bobby, whatcha think?”

Bobby steps forward to examine Sam.

“Open up,” he commands.

Sam does, cringing.

Bobby shines a flashlight down his throat and presses his fingers to the swollen sides of Sam’s throat.

“How much has he been sleeping?”

“All the time, pretty much,” Dean replies.

“That ain’t a curse, Dean. That’s plain ol’ mononucleosis.”

Dean blinks.

“Sure as hell sounds like a curse.”

“It’s _mono._ ”

“Mono?” Dean wrinkles his nose. “Don’t you get that from kissing?”

Suddenly his expression brightens.

“Sa-ha-hammy!”

Sam groans and lies down so he’s facing the back of the couch. Figures the one good kiss he’s had in a long while got him a fucking disease.

“Don’t tell me it’s Callie Hutchins that got you down, you sly dog. I _knew_ somethin’ was going on…”

 Sam curls in on himself. He’s too fucking tired for this. All he wants to do is drop off again so he doesn’t have to feel his headache.

Dean stops his teasing abruptly and Sam hears Bobby leaving the room. He calls in an old-school doctor who still does house calls, and luckily the guy owes Bobby a favor and passes on some antibiotics free of charge.

Sam chokes down the pills and goes back to sleep.

Dean hovers over Sam—literally, perched on the arm of the couch—all day.

He brings Sam warm, damp washcloths by the hour, cups of tea, pain meds. Sam would appreciate it, if he could only stay awake for more than about thirty minutes at a time.

Meanwhile, Bobby prepares the house for the holidays. He even goes so far as to dust the old bookshelves off and put away the holy water and handguns stashed all over the place.

 

*****

 

Sam drifts in and out.

He dreams of screaming and the stench of burning flesh. Nightmares are nothing new to him.

He wakes up every four hours or so, the Christmas decorations a blur of warm light. They kinda make his head hurt worse, but he likes them anyways.

The lights on the tree are indistinct glowing balls of gold and red, casting the room in a warm, soft haze. When he opens his eyes from the nightmares, it’s what keeps him anchored.

This is real—this is Bobby’s house and the smell of old leather as Dean dozes open-mouthed in the armchair next to the couch.

Sam pushes the pile of blankets back and pads to the bathroom as quietly as he can. Dean’s soft snores keep up after he closes the door and he takes in his reflection.

He’s lost some weight; his face is gaunt and his hair is unkempt and lank.

He runs the shower and practically falls asleep standing up—it takes almost an hour for him to get out and when he does, Dean’s waiting for him with his arms crossed.

“You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I have been,” Sam says. “For like, two days.”

Dean shakes his head and points to the couch and the nest of blankets still molded in the shape of Sam’s body.

He can hear Bobby cooking Christmas dinner in the kitchen, some kind of glazed ham and green beans and—

The room smells amazing and Sam’s stomach turns. He’s still not hungry, but he’s gonna do his damndest to force down some food later.

“’M gonna have a nap before dinner,” Sam says, the couch suddenly looking a lot more appealing.

Dean settles down into his armchair again, picking up the copy of _Rolling Stone_ he’d been reading.

He rests his arm on the couch next to where Sam’s head is propped and Sam falls asleep inhaling the scent of the old leather coat.

 

*****

 

When Sam wakes up again, the living room’s been outfitted with a clothed table laden with dishes of steaming food. The table’s close enough to the couch that he doesn’t even have to move.

God bless Bobby Singer.

“Mornin’ Sunshine. Soup’s on,” Bobby says.

Sam pushes himself up and takes in the meal.

Bobby’s really outdone himself. The ham is in the center, pink and cooked to perfection, surrounded by green bean casserole and stuffing and cranberry sauce, and fresh rolls and—

Sam might be appreciating the spread, but Dean’s positively drooling.

“Dig in,” Bobby nods.

Dean does.

Sam takes a few slices of ham and a scoop of casserole. He’s not hungry at all but the food looks fantastic.

Bobby and Dean are arguing about some John Wayne film and Sam’s actually warm enough for once. He nibbles at the ham, which is excellent, has a few sips of cheap wine and—

“What d’you think, Sam?”

….

“Sam?”

Sam wakes with a start.

 

 *****

 

“You feel any better?”

“A little,” Sam says, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “How long was I out this time?”

“’Bout eight hours.”

Sam sits up and rubs his eyes.

Dean’s sitting on the arm of the couch again, not really looking at him.

“Did you really kiss Callie?”

“Dean,” Sam scoffs, feeling himself flush. This is so not a good time.

“Okay, I’m not— cause I just—” Dean fumbles over his words.

“What, you jealous?” Sam teases in a rasp.

Sam meant jealous of _him,_ but Dean’s jealous alright and shows Sam how he feels rather than trying to spit out an explanation.

He bends down and kisses Sam, hard. He slips off the arm and sideways into Sam’s lap, Sam automatically catching Dean and balancing his heavy weight on his sore thighs while Dean tries to get a better angle on his mouth.

But Sam’s not ready for the kiss, rocked back by the impact and suddenly it’s all _Dean,_ and he’s tasting him and opening up and letting him in and coaxing for more and Dean’s mouth is so hot, exactly what he wants it to be and he’s filled with searing warmth.

Dean’s dry lips send surges of electricity through Sam, charging life into his exhausted body and he kisses back.

Sam licks his way inside Dean, pushing the kiss gently back into his territory. Dean leans back and sighs, and Sam can feel him smiling against his lips.

He presses in close, glad that he’s not feeling quite so breakable for the first time in weeks.

Until they both realize how fucking stupid they’re being.

"Fuck!” Dean wrenches away from Sam, who recoils to the other side of the couch.

“Shit, Dean, I’m sorry, I forgot—”

“I’m the one who forgot, fucking _fuck!”_ Dean gets to his feet and sprints to the bathroom.

Sam can hear him gargling mouthwash from three rooms away and he has to stifle a laugh. He slumps against the arm of the couch, cushioning his aching head on it and closing his eyes.

The Christmas lights twinkle against his closed lids and he rolls the taste of Dean around on his tongue. His stomach feels like it’s loosened some and fresh adrenaline seeps into his system.

His smile widens when he hears Dean booting up the laptop, undoubtedly about to Google the incubation period of mono.

 Having Dean sick too is gonna be a tough one to explain to Bobby.


End file.
